Drinks, Draco and Morbid Musings
by 13.shimer.13
Summary: You know life's not a fairytale. Hermione Granger's just more aware of this fact than you are. Read and review, I strive on criticism.
1. Chapter 1

Drinks, Draco, and Morbid Musings

Disclaimer: Quite obviously, I'm not the author of the Harry Potter books. I am but a poor, struggling writer, typing out some words on a much abused keyboard and then posting the end result on this website. Unless you catch me on a weekend. Then I'm a clown.

I'm sick of this shit. I'm sick of this life, these people and this world. They all laugh like nothing's happened, but I know that everything has. Nothing will ever be the same again, and they can laugh all they like—but I know the truth. The truth is; people have _died_. The dead are a constant companion, and the guilt they bring never truly goes away. I can see their faces, I can see their names. I can see their graves. Was it worth it? Was all of that loss really worth it? The blood spilt... the blood. Lots of that. Pure-blood, half-blood, mud-blood. There's no fucking difference any more. We all look the same, people. Skin and bones and shit, that's what we are. We are thoughts, too, though these days I prefer drinking over thinking. That's why I'm sitting in this mouldy muggle pub, downing vodkas and cokes like I'll never see another drink again. If Harry and Ron have their way, I probably never will. So it's for the best, I tell myself, to go for it and let myself get completely bladdered. Pissed, I promise myself, is going to take on a new meaning tonight.

Now, if I see something I like—and I suspect I probably will, because everyone looks the same to me when I'm browsing for lonesome tossers—I won't be going home alone tonight. I never go home alone, because going home on your own stops the party. Why stop the party, when you could take home a loser and drink some more? And once you're both far too drunk to care, that's when you know you're safe to make your move on the asshole drinking your rum and staring at your chest like it holds the answers to all of life's questions. That's when it's best to go for it and kiss your one night stand. It all goes fairly quickly from there, of course. From experience, the sleaze you've taken home with you doesn't deserve your bed, so fuck him on the couch. Make sure he's really, really drunk if he's a muggle. That way you can cast spells and he'll be seeing so many stars he won't notice a thing. By now, the Ministry knows what I like to do, so they don't freak out when I perform magic in front of muggles. My kind of muggle's a drunken muggle.

Tonight's muggle looks half decent, I think. Blonde hair and he smells like he's had a wash recently. He tries to give me a name and buy me another drink, but I don't want his name _or_ his drink, so I grab him by his hand and drag him out of the pub. I live two roads away from here, so it'll be quicker than attempting to find out where he lives. Besides, if we go to his place we'll probably end up in his bed, and I don't deserve that. It's better to retreat to my couch, where I can forget for a few moments how shitty life is, and I can go to sleep with this man's performance replaying in my head instead of a Quidditch match, or a nightmare about Voldemort the bloody bastard. What a wanker. He wasn't content to just be miserable on his own; he had to drag us all down with him. I know misery loves company, but that selfish hypocrite didn't have to make me that company. He made all my friends company, too. But somehow, Harry and Ron, the saintly Gryffindor saviours, managed to regain some dregs of happiness at the end of all of this. I know I'll never be happy again.

"Where're we going, beautiful?" I look up at my company for tonight, and somehow his words manage to arrange themselves into some understandable order. There's logic to this question. He wants to know where we're going. What should I tell him? "My place." would do it. "Somewhere we can get more sloshed." makes sense too. I settle for the former, and that seems to sit well with him.

"What's your name?" I look up at him again with some annoyance. I never tell anyone my real name. It's my rule—I don't want intentional repeats, and I don't want a bloody relationship. I don't do feelings with guys. Not in that way, in any case. If I want to talk about my emotions, I'll go to Ginny.

"Hannah," I say eventually. It's not that far from the truth, really. They both begin with an 'H' don't they?

"I'm Draco," he tells me with what's supposed to be a charming smile. It makes my skin crawl, if I'm being perfectly honest. "I tried to tell you earlier, but you didn't really let me..." He continues. Did he never stop to think that maybe—just maybe—I didn't actually _want_ to know his name? What's the point of going on a pub crawl in search of good booze and an easy shag, when the guy you pick up has manners and is acting like a sissy boy taking a virgin out on her first date? There's no bloody point. I've changed my mind. This _boy_ (I'm quite hesitant to even call him a boy, as he hardly seems like a male at all) isn't worth so much as my couch, either. He's worth so much more than that. That's why I can't have sex with this innocent bystander. He is far, far too innocent for a girl like me.

"I—I'm sorry, but I have to go..." I say, before running away from him. Running's what I do best, and I'm running towards another bottle of vodka and another pint of tears tonight. There's no use in trying to forget, because now all I can think about is that boy and how innocent he is, and how, once upon a time, I used to be as innocent as that. But that once upon a time happened a long time ago, and in a mental state from far, far away.

A/N: Enjoyable to write, but was it enjoyable to read? Let me know in a review please! I may continue this, if you want me to.


	2. Chapter 2

Drinks, Draco and Morbid Musings

Disclaimer: I disclaim Harry Potter completely. I am nothing but a poor fool.

Going back to the same pub you got drunk at last night? Not the best idea. The barman remembered me, and what I was drinking. He didn't look too happy to see me, because some of his punters kept giving me funny looks yesterday, all because I was drinking more than they were. Alright, after my ninth I probably should have stopped, but vodka is half as strong as Firewhiskey, if you ask me. Then again, I'm drunk. I hardly know what I'm saying—thinking?—right now. In any case, an annoyed bar tender isn't the reason why going back to the same pub is a bad idea; it's the people there that you see. Blonde people in particular. Blondes are always looking for repeats, especially the blondes that smell nice. It's the innocent one, and he's back again. This time, I accept his offer for a drink. It'll make us both feel better.

"What're you drinking, Hannah?" There's that charming smile, out again and making me feel a little sick. I tell him rum and coke, because the vodka's just too boring at the moment. I tell the bartender to make it three quarters rum and one quarter coke, with no ice because that weakens the brew. Blondie (I'm screwed if he thinks I can remember his name, I can hardly remember my own) gets the same, and downs it in one. That doesn't impress me, but I think he thinks it might. Which is actually kind of pathetic, now that I think about it. It takes a while for me to think about it; my poison is effective.

I want to ask him why he's back at this sad old pub, but I know I won't. I'm too scared to find out the answer. See, he could just like the mould-green decor, or he could be here for me. I'm a coward, so I'm not going to ask, just in case. I wasn't always a coward. At Hagswort... Hogswort... Hogwarts, I was in Gryffindor. We were lions in that house, and we consumed cowardice for breakfast. Now, I meet up with innocent blondes in muggle pubs, and don't ask them the questions I want to ask. How lame am I? I hate the person I've become. She's... well, she's not Hermione Granger, is she?

"Hermione Granger," I say, and Blondie stares at me like I've transfigured into Hagrid. But Hagrid's dead now. A lot of people are dead now. My parents... Tonks... Remus... Sirius... Hedwig... Fred... Dumbledore... Snape... Cedric... We watched the casualties pile up, and as we plotted Moldywart's demise, our comrades were Kedavra'd off one by one.

"How do you know her?" he asks me with surprise.

"How do you?" I retort.

"I used to know her once. A long time ago." he had a faraway look in his eyes. That or the rum was getting to him. It was probably the rum.

"Exactly," I say with a wise nod.

Then it gets really confusing. The bloody pub starts to spin, and I'm faintly aware of warm hands guiding me out of a door and into the cool night air. There's a long walk in the cold, warmed only by that pair of hands. After that, there's a set of stairs, and then there's a warm embrace which seems to last for forever, but I know it can only be hours even in my sleep. All is peaceful—until the morning, that is.

"Why is the sun awake?" I moan. My head's killing me. Slowly and painfully, I am dying inside. And it is hot here; far too hot for my liking. Where's the cool of my draughty room back home? The constant cold was soothing, familiar. It is best to wake to a chill when you have a permanent hangover. This heat is too much for me. I register the strong arms encircling my body eventually, and I am immediately panicked. Who the fuck is this?

If I dare open my eyes, I know I'll find out. I lift my right eye lid up a little bit, and I'm blinded by the bloody sun. Wincing, I stretch awkwardly. The person holding me stirs a little, and then holds me to him closer.

"Wake up, person, wake up!" I whisper hurriedly. I'd shout, but my head hurts. The person doesn't wake up. I wait a few minutes to see if he will, but he doesn't, so I blindly hit at him until he lets me go.

"Hannah?" The man asks with a yawn. His voice is sleepy and rough and deep. I make a noncommittal noise in response.

"What's your name, again?" this man sounds like my blonde stalker. What was his name, again? Tom, Harry, Dean? I can't remember. I think I might have known it once, perhaps.

"Draco," he yawns again, and alarm bells begin to ring in my head. Draco? Blondie is called Draco? I've only ever known one Draco, and he was a complete and utter tosser. He was a _blonde _complete and utter tosser. If I open my eyes, will they see the face of a prat from my past? Probably. Which is why I choose to do the only bearable thing—keep my eyes shut, and go back to sleep.

A/N: I attempted to resist writing another chapter. Needless to say, it was futile. I seem to have some odd curiosity to find out what happens next, unfortunately. Review and tell me how to improve and be a better writer!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I still own nothing, really. Nescafe is an instant coffee brand over here in Britain, and I don't own them. Obviously.

"Hannah, wake up!" some sort of earthquake is shaking around me.

"Mmm?" the earthquake is still happening. Why is the earthquake still happening? I'm in England, aren't I? Earthquakes in England? That isn't right, is it? I don't think it is.

"Hannah, get up!" and there's that voice. The familiar voice of a familiar blonde. Innocent? I don't think so, not anymore. _I should have just fucked him while I had the chance... _where did that thought come from? Me, fucking Malfoy, my childhood enemy? That's the plot of a badly written romance, that is. 'Opposites attract', they call it. I call it great hate sex followed by a messy divorce. It's all rosy until the honeymoon's ended and you have to actually be married. Or so I've heard.

"Piss off, Blondie," I moan. I can't stand to call him by any other name—let him think I don't know who he is, what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Stupid bastard. I really know how to pick them, don't I? And I thought the guy who liked feet was bad... at least he wasn't a ferret, a wastrel, a wizard, a pure-blooded, prejudiced, pompous prick.

"Come on Hannah, you need to get up now." He sounds a bit amused. That's probably because he's weird. Yes, he's very weird. And he has no right to sound so fucking amused. Not when my head's giving me grief, and I have to go to a birthday party later on. It's Harry's birthday today. Thank fuck I went shopping for it yesterday, and I have a present for him. But that's at home, and I'm definitely not at home. That's a good point, actually—

"Where the fuck am I?" it's a mumbled question, but I know he hears and understands it when he answers me back (sounding far too amused and happy for my liking, if I'm honest)

"We're at my flat. Don't you remember last night, Hannah?" the bastard is smiling and laughing and looking _good_. Not as innocent as I remember him in my hazy drunkenness, but sinfully _good_ in an amazing way. Now, we can skip the marriage if he likes (I know I like that idea—I'm not Malfoy material yet because I haven't killed anyone so far) and get to that hot, steamy hate sex...

Then again, only I'd know it was hate sex. Draco Malfoy always was a dumb shit. I don't look _that _different to how I did in our school days, not really. Well. I guess I'm skinnier because I never really eat any more. And I guess I stink of booze, too. And my hair's a lot longer than it used to be. And it looks a hell of a lot messier and wilder than it did back then because I don't bother with brushing it. The look I'm going for these days is sort of a cross between Bellatrix Lestrange and Nymphadora Tonks: bat shit crazy, and about to kill you. In a cute, adorable way.

"I remember. I was in that mouldy pub, I was drinking drinks, then Blondie—I mean, you—came over and bought me a drink and then everything started spinning." He laughed again. Apparently, hangover 'strangers' amuse him. A lot.

"My name's Draco. I've told you that a few times now, but I guess you've been pretty drunk for most of them. And after the pub started spinning for you, I took you here to my flat and, well, it's my bed so I wasn't going to sleep on the couch or anything, but I didn't do anything to you while you were asleep, I didn't even take off your clothes or anything..." he was in such a rush to reassure me that nothing had happened and that he'd been honourable that I almost laughed. But laughing—even at Malfoy, the stupid prick—just wasn't in my vocabulary when I had such a crappy headache and needed a mug of coffee. Coffee. Who do you have to shag around here to get some of that? Malfoy, perhaps? I'd like that...

"Coffee?" I ask through a yawn, and he scrambles up out of the bed (and a very nice one it is, too, though the plain blue bedding isn't quite the green and silver monstrosity I expected. Then again, I can't talk much, can I? Mine's plain black—definitely not the red and gold everyone tried to force on me) and half runs out of the room in search of the caffeine I'm seeking. This spot on the bed has the loveliest view of his arse (clad only in black boxers) as it leaves the room. Draco Malfoy is undeniably one of the hottest men I've _ever _been in a bed with—even if we didn't do the yummy, scrummy things one expects to do in a bed.

The bastard probably knows it, too. I yawn again, and not five minutes later Malfoy's back with two piping hot mugs of coffee. I thank him and take a sip, and it tastes bloody gorgeous. You can always tell if someone's giving you the good stuff or just some cheap Nescafe by how rich it is. This shit is richer than his family. Malfoy has unmistakably chosen to give me the good stuff, and I feel like hugging the wanker and forgiving him for all of the crap he's ever done to me—so long as he makes me coffee everyday from now on, I'll do anything.

"Fuck that's good," I say appreciatively, and he nods in agreement, a lazy smile on his face as he too sips the magical elixir he's made. Move over Amortentia—I could snog Snape right now.

We sit in silence, both drinking the hot coffee slowly and occasionally, just occasionally, I moan a little (very quietly) from the brilliant taste. Of course, after every moan I see the tosser smirk a bit, so I know he can hear my moans. By the time we've finished, his ego is bigger than Hogwarts and I'm torn between killing him and asking for another mug.

Instead, I stretch, stand and awkwardly smile at him. He smiles and stands too, and we walk out of the bedroom past a kitchen, living room and tiny bathroom and make it to what must be his front door. He moves in to hug me, but I instead open the door and grin at him.

"Thanks for the coffee, Blondie." He laughs, and watches me walk away a bit, before shouting back

"The name's Draco!"

After apparating to my own flat, I shower and wash my hair, brush my teeth and check the time. It's 6 and Harry's party starts in half an hour. I feed Crookshanks, yank on a tight, short black dress and apply liberal amounts of mascara, eyeliner, and lip gloss and wrap Harry's present (a box of chocolate frogs and a bottle of Firewhiskey) before drying my hair and preparing myself to pretend to be happy. Tonight I will join in with the laughter, and pretend everything is fine—and tomorrow, I'll find myself a new pub and drink myself once more into my favourite kind of oblivion.

Authors Note: Good God sometimes I write complete and utter rubbish. Fortunately for you, once I've written it I upload it onto FanFiction so you can snigger at my foul, arbitrary attempts at literature. Review please; I like to read reviews because it cheers me up after writing in such a depressing persona.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Work of fiction based on another work of fiction. Goodness me, it's not owned by me, my homework is. Well, and my teachers own it too I guess.

After stepping out of Harry's fireplace, I can't help but brush myself down once. I don't want to look too bad. I only have a few seconds to straighten my hair before I'm pulled into a big hug from Ron.

"Hermione! You came!" thank you, Captain Obvious, for pointing out... the obvious.

"I said I would, didn't I?" I say with a 'happy' smile. I want to snap at the oblivious red-head, but undoubtedly Harry would get pissed off if I messed up his flaming birthday party. It was a 'surprise' party—which of course meant that the Daily Prophet had been publishing it and details of it on the front page all week. Thankfully, no photographers were here, and no reporters were either. After the war, I'd become known for hexing the media.

I don't do interviews, I don't do autographs and I don't do photos. I do drink, though. A lot. One fucking war and I've suddenly become a drunken wreck. I'm scared shitless of the dead, and the living aren't much better these days. I look at Ron, and I'm reminded of the fact he has brothers. And then his brothers... well, I can't look at Fred anymore. When I look at George, I feel like shit because he probably feels ten times worse than I do, and he's handling it ten times better than I am too. When I look at Bill, I see a werewolf attack, and that brings me to Lupin, and from Lupin to Tonks, and from Tonks to Black, and from Black to Harry's parents, then to my parents, then to Ron's and to all that we've all lost and somewhere along the way, when I'm looking at Charlie I see Hagrid and then I see Hedwig, and then Moody, and Snape, and Voldemort and his big red eyes like double-decker busses running over my heart.

And then I reach for vodka, or beer, or rum, or wine, and I can sense the change and taste the poison and feel—really _feel_—my liver shrivel up like my heart and my brain. What is the point of a heart, when it hurts to love? What is the point of a brain, when it hurts to think? And what is the fucking point in having a liver if you don't abuse that too? I control how and when my liver has to deal with alcohol, and I'm not a bloody addict like Harry and Ron think. I'm not addicted to alcohol, or to sex. The sex is so I can feel; the alcohol so I can forget. They say I'm killing myself, and they're right there.

They try to stop me, tell me it's not worth it, and tell me I'm better than that, but I'm not. I'm not better than anyone or anything, I'm just me: Hermione Granger, all-round train wreck and—Draco Malfoy?

What. The. Fuck. Is _he _doing here? I blink and rub my eyes, but he's not disappearing. He's not a bloody hallucination, but he could still be a figment of my imagination...

"Can you see him?" I ask Ron hurriedly, and he turns to look at me, the spitting image of confusion.

"See who?" he asks, one ginger eyebrow raised.

"Draco _fucking _Malfoy, you prat!" I hiss back, frustrated with his obliviousness. How could he not have noticed the blonde? Then again, nobody else has, either.

"Malfoy?" asks Ron, looking around gormlessly. "Where?"

I point shakily over to the blonde and Ron does a double take and then, as if I didn't already think him stupid enough, he says "What's he doing here?" as if _I _willknow the answer.

"I don't know," I wish I did know why he was here. I also wish I wasn't here. If Draco Malfoy sees me here, he'll find out the truth. He'll know what Perfect Hermione Granger has been reduced to and how little miss know-it-all doesn't really know anything. The bastard would never let me hear the end of it.

Fuck.

"Hannah?" Draco _fucking _Malfoy called. He'd seen me; the game was up.

"Hannah?" Ron asked me, looking around. "I think he means _you_, Hermione." Perfect timing, Ron. You finally notice something, and it's not what I want you to notice. You were supposed to always be my oblivious friend, the one with a good heart and no eyes...

"Right, I'm leaving." I say, and Ron gives me a look as if to say 'what about Harry?' "Tell Harry I said happy birthday, and give him this, will you? It's his present." I hand Ron the red and gold wrapped gift, and move the few paces back to the fireplace I'd just stepped out of, hastily throwing some glittery green powder into it and quickly shouting "5 Sycamore Street!"

I hate floo-ing, but sometimes it's necessary. And it's much more convenient than brooms. The sensation of floo-ing isn't terrible, but apparition is much more preferable. But Harry wasn't allowing anyone to apparate to his or from his. Flinching while drunk? Been there, done that, and it's not pretty.

I've been sitting down for about ten minutes, staring into space, when my fireplace lights up, and an annoying blonde steps out from it. Draco fucking Malfoy, but this time he's clued in.

"Hermione." He says. It's all he says, and I look at him in silence while he looks back at me in silence. Minutes pass. It's a staring competition in the extreme. He looks away first.

"Are you alright?" he asks eventually. Are you alright? Are you alright? That's a fairly anti-climatic question. If I were him I would've started with 'why the fuck did you lie to me?' and 'who the fuck let you out of the padded room with white walls?'

I shrug my shoulders and ask him he's alright. He says he is. Then we sit in more silence. If I can get up my nerve, I'll ask him what he's doing here with Hermione Granger, skeletal mudblood and overall wreck. At the moment, the silence is pleasing. I'm going to wait for him to speak. Eventually, he does.

"You're probably wondering why I'm... oh, fuck it. Want to go out some time?" he asks me with a smile. I can't help but smile back. If there's going to be drink, I'll be there, I tell him, and he laughs.

After spending the night talking about what's happened since The Dark Days, as they're commonly referred to as, we fell asleep in each other's arms. And that's how Ginny found us the next morning...

Authors Note: I feel terrible, just so you know. Cold, hungry, tired, nauseous, I keep coughing and sneezing all over the place... and I wrote for you this laaaaavely chapter. Hope you enjoyed it and understand the huge sacrifice I'm making here. In a choice between my A-Level homework (of which I have lots) and this story, this story won. Review, ta.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I still don't own this. If you think that I do, you may need some sort of therapeutic help, so seek a professional opinion on that. It'll be beneficial.

"Aaaaaaah!" I hear a shrill shriek and wake with a start, wearily opening my eyes, confused. What is that noise, and who is making it? Bright red hair catches my attention and I see Ginny Weasley, one of my best friends, standing in my living room in the hearth of my fireplace looking livid. Beside me is a sleeping Draco (amazingly, he hasn't been woken by Ginny's loud shouting). We are entangled, but fully clothed and there are two empty wine glasses beside the couch—proof of last night's reminiscence.

"Ginny… Why are you screaming?" I ask her exasperatedly. She stares at me with wide open eyes and blinks once, as though I am an alien that has just appeared in front of her.

"I—you—_that's Draco Malfoy_!" is all she manages to say in an accusing tone. Then, she falls to the floor and looks dumbstruck.

"I know full well who he is, Ginevra," I inform her coldly. "I'm dating him." She looks like she wants to talk more—a whole lot more, if I know anything about Ginny—but at that moment, Draco stirs. "I'll tell you more later," I say to Ginny in hushed tones and she nods and very reluctantly moves stands up and moves over to my fireplace once more. She grabs a handful of the floo powder and quietly commands to go to the burrow.

"Was that Ginny?" asks Draco with a yawn, smiling and tightening his grip on me. I turn into him with a smile and nod sleepily.

"She was a little… anxious." I say dryly, trying not to roll my eyes at the blatant understatement. He laughs, and I know he was awake when Ginny was there. "How much did you hear?" I ask him with a smile, and he laughs again.

"Everything," he admits sheepishly. "I was awake for a minute before she got here; I was going to wake you but you looked peaceful…" he shook his head ruefully. "I don't think there's much of a difference between that extra minute of sleep you got and if you hadn't gotten it, but I wish I had woken you myself now. It would have been a bit more… quiet, than Ginny's wake up call."

"It's okay," I tell him with a laugh. "You're very good at pretending to be asleep," I comment. He shrugs and then unwraps his arms from around me.

"I don't know about you, but I am starving," he makes his way to my small kitchen and I hear him open cupboard doors and drawers. In less than 5 minutes we're sitting on my couch together eating Coco Pops from overflowing bowls drinking coffee and talking together, like last night. But now we're talking about school, and what lessons we used to like and just… memories. Happy ones. We haven't yet broached the harder topics, like our previous mistreatment of each other or the fact that I lied about who I was just yet, but I know that we will eventually have those discussions. For now, we're content to sit together eating muggle cereal and talking about the people we used to be.

Hogwarts… that was an age ago, wasn't it? Did I really have hair like that; did I really read so many books? Knowledge had been my friend, but now I found myself consumed with grief for my friends, for myself, even for the greater public—for people I had never met and now, never would. And he had been so proud, stubborn, set in his ways. We had changed into two completely different people—and here we were now in my flat, cuddling on my sofa. How many guys had I let on my coach before? Several. But I had never eaten breakfast with any of them, especially not after a relaxed night of catching up.

It was completely crazy! This had never been the plan, in fact, there had never even been a plan, but somehow I had gotten to this place. Something had changed again, shifted. It was a physical change in my sense of self, wasn't it? Too many thoughts were circling my mind, none of them constructive. I could sit here, hashing it out in my mind like an idiot… or I could forget about my crippling fears and take a chance on Draco Malfoy and live. Really live. It had been so long since I had lived, and now I was ready to be again, to live again. It was time to get myself out of my own head, out of the insanity, and start to live and be involved with life.

Starting from today, I'm going to live. Draco Malfoy has opened me up to new opportunities, opportunities I'd never known I could have. Now, I know I can live. I'm going to live for me.

A/N: End of January… last time I felt the urge to write this, it was 2010. Now it's 2011, and life is still as crazy as ever—and so is my twisted version of Hermione. This is going in places I'd never thought of. I hope you like it, because I'm not sure I do…


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